


As Lovely As Thunder

by deathwailart



Series: Morgaine Trevelyan [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Affection, F/F, Fluff, Hair Brushing, Massage, Mild Sexual Content, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A humid Ferelden day turns to rain; Morgaine hates the heat and her sore back, Cassandra makes it better.  The tent leaks.  </p>
<p>Written for the prompt: sharing a leaky tent in the Hinterlands</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Lovely As Thunder

As all things do, the fair weather passes and the blue skies darken to grey, the air too humid for Ferelden for any of them to be comfortable. Both Morgaine and Varric spend the day increasingly tugging at their collars as if it's going to do them any good, more accustomed to the fresh salt air of Ostwick and Kirkwall respectively; even in the Circle the air from the high barred windows was always cool and Ferelden stinks of mud, of wet dog, not brine so thick she can taste it on her tongue. Bull doesn't mind, he just starts talking about Seheron and Cassandra doesn't seem overly bothered by it either and that seems even more unfair in Morgaine's book when the other woman doesn't even have Bull's excuse of going about shirtless when she says it's not so oppressive. Still, she finds Cassandra watching her as she indulges with her magic the way she would as a child, coating the tips of her fingers in frost to touch behind her ears, at the back of her neck where loose strands of hair from her piled arrangement of braids stick to her skin uncomfortably, even being so bold as to lightly stroke two fingers down her throat and further to where she's opened her robes as much as the armoured section allows.  
  
It gets Bull's attention too and a complaint from Varric that drifts into him talking about the days when his chest hair rivalled a Rivaini pirate's bosom.  
  
Morgaine hates Ferelden, perhaps not as viciously as Orlesians do or claim to but the heat that smothers her like a damp blanket makes it worse. Her family own dogs the way every family of status own dogs, own horses, own any sort of prized thing with a lineage almost as long and as venerable as their own but the stink of them in the damp air makes her grimace. It's one of the rare days where a pack of rabid mabari _haven't_ attacked them but the smell won't come out of her robes for weeks, not when they're still strengthening the trade routes to Skyhold; it's a small thing, a petty thing but she takes a comfort in sitting in her private quarters or Vivienne's, or Dorian's little nook of the library, complaining bitterly about the lost little comforts. She might have become used to scrubbing herself clean in rivers, to making do, to learning how to craft her own equipment and repair it but she misses parts of her old life, how much easier it was to wade through because she was not trying to stride against the oncoming tide. Relish a challenge she might, enjoy the influence, the change to make her mark on history she might like just as well but sometimes…  
  
She heaves a sigh, stretches her arms high above her head until the ache in her shoulders becomes almost unbearable same as the tightness at her temples from where she brushed her hair back prior to braiding too severely.  
  
"Inquisitor?" Cassandra is at her elbow before she even notices, the only other person besides Cole who manages to sneak up on her and she smiles because it's Cassandra, because Cassandra is always deserving of her smiles. Even when it's just Morgaine and the rest of the companions it's never her first name, always Inquisitor, never breaching any line where she might be improper. Cassandra understands that there's a reputation to uphold and though she has no patience for the Game, she agrees with Morgaine on the need for this public distance.  
  
"I'm eager to make camp; I miss the sea air in Ostwick on days such as these."  
  
"You should try Seheron," Bull says with a grin and she looks up at him even though her neck is tight. The vitaar he wears hasn't melted at all in the air but why would it, she's studied the properties of it after all but it strikes her as unfair when she wants to melt. "Feels you're trying to breathe through one of those thin soups that were all the rage in Orlais."  
  
"Those the green foamy ones?" Varric asks and Bull nods. "Orlesians," he mutters and they share a laugh right as the thunder rolls in, louder and closer than before, lightning forking through the air to crackle on the open water. "Okay, do I get to speak for us all when I say we hurry to camp? I've been hit by enough lightning spells to know that dealing with chest hair static is the exact opposite of trying to catch a greased nug."  
  
Bull looks ready to ask what that's actually like when the thunder booms, the sky darkens and the rain begins, heavy and ice cold, a great huge cloudburst and Morgaine curses, fingers struggling to close her robes. In the end they run, sloshing along and the hem of her robes will be ruined, stained with mud because of course the ground beneath their feet turns to it, thick and sucking at her boots and she has to grab Cassandra's arm when she almost falls.  
  
"Inquisitor!" A scout calls and there's no time for courtesies, only the briefest of tight smiles as she and Cassandra make for one of the tents, Bull and Varric the other. It's dark inside, the air still stifling and it smells musty but she's shivering already.  
  
"I hate Ferelden," she mutters and Cassandra's grunt is one of agreement. She's rather fluent in them at this stage. "Sweet Andraste I almost smell as foul as I did after we visited the Fallow Mire."  
  
"Didn't you burn your robes?" She can almost see the way Cassandra lifts her brows, the smile that will pull the corner of her mouth up.  
  
"The staff at Haven went green at the smell of them; I'd rather not wear something or have anyone handle a thing so many corpses have touched, we had enough ill luck as it was at the time." A twinge shoots up through her shoulder when she stretches to rub her neck and she doesn't catch herself in time to stop the gasp that escapes, nor the sound that's too close to a whimper for her liking when she drops the arm back down again.  
  
"You're hurt?" Without turning – likely impossible given the tightness and the feeling of having something lodged under her shoulder blade – she knows Cassandra has closed the distance between them from the heat of her hands, a light touch, barely there but welcome. She shakes her head no, choosing silence because Cassandra is right there, leather and sword oil and one of Morgaine's own perfumes, a heady one with strong spice notes that only suit Morgaine at night and on the right occasion but always suit Cassandra. "And you tell Cullen, Josephine and I that we take too little time to relax." The rebuke is soft, and Cassandra's mouth is at her ear so that her quiet laugh sends a shudder down Morgaine's spine. "Your shoulders are hard as iron, let me help you."  
  
Her back stiffens because it's a rare thing, letting someone else peel her out of her layers unless she's already decided it and it's ridiculous, to feel helpless over so small a thing but she does, moving awkwardly when Cassandra peels the sweaty outer layers off and kneels to help her out of her boots. The ground is cold and hard when she finally sits and she'll have to sleep on her front or her side unless she wants to be helped to her feet in the morning. Maker preserve her, she can't wait to be away from this miserable place, to somewhere more civilised and less backwards, less provincial; the rest can wear what they choose but it's always been her policy to dress depending on who she must be around and Ferelden means drab colours, too much leather and fur, all of it brown as mud and the dogs that roll in it. Give her Skyhold and the warm fabrics to protect from the chill of the mountains, the rich garments cut in the latest styles to be worn in Orlais, the robes of red and white with gold trim to be worn when speaking with important members of the Chantry. Give her anything but this.  
  
Cassandra kisses the back of her neck where the hair is plastered to her skin with sweat, bending awkwardly from the way the tent sags beneath the driving rain. She is careful, methodical, only a brief pause as she tugs off her gauntlets to drop them on top of their dumped packs; she presses close, brings her hands around the front to find the catches of the armour, opening them by touch alone. How many times have they done this now? She was no maiden when she first courted Cassandra, when they kissed and then found that hidden place with only the stars as witness but nothing has ever made her gasp each time. The touch is almost chaste as the armour opens and even though the air feels so close, the damp makes her shiver, not helped when Cassandra presses another kiss to that spot just below her ear where, when her hands skim up and over her breasts, a gentle touch before she eases Morgaine's arms from the sleeves, urging her to step out of them.  
  
"None of this is equitable," she manages, unsurprised that her voice is so husky, as if she's been in battle all day, shouting commands.  
  
"A moment," Cassandra agrees, bending to press a kiss between Morgaine's shoulders that has her arching until the twinge returns. "A pity we aren't in Skyhold, I would repay the favour though my touch is not as gentle as your own and the only bath would be in the river."  
  
"Given that we only just slew a dragon and her young, I'd rather not, Maker knows what's in there now, I'd be just as dirty." Oh but a bath, the thought of it is almost enough to make her sigh because she's well aware of how dearly she loves her creature comfort and Josephine finally procuring just the right sort of heavy claw-footed bath was enough to shower her in gifts to show her thanks.  
  
Cassandra laughs, the sound soft over the sound of belts and buckles being removed and Morgaine toes out of her own boots, rolling down the stockings she has to wear with the tall boots despite the heat. At least elsewhere there's a breeze but with the dragon vanquished, they'll have little reason to return to this place, at least not for some time and by then it might be winter, cool and crisp.  
  
"I hate this country," she says again, watching as Cassandra folds her robes to rest on top of their packs, her stave set down between the two simple bedrolls, Cassandra's sword and shield beside it. They look right together, a thought held only for a moment because Cassandra is there before her, stripped down to her underwear same as Morgaine and Cassandra will _always_ hold her attention, before anything and almost certainly everything else. A warm strong hand curves around her hip, turning her to face Cassandra who pulls her close, closing the gap between them, kissing Morgaine until she can't breathe and when she leans back she's smiling. Morgaine tries to scowl, if only for the sake of her reputation should others hear; there's been plenty of gossip regarding the Lady Inquisitor and the Lady Seeker after all, harmless most of it but she won't add more fuel to the fire. Not from shame but because this is private, this is one thing that is hers and theirs and the world will not lay a finger on it without her say. "Get off, I stink, I'm covered in sweat, absolutely saturated."  
  
"You almost throw me up against the wall or down onto your bed when I'm done in the practice ring," Cassandra points out, not unfairly but Morgaine rolls her eyes.  
  
"That's an honest sweat and Skyhold's air is always fresh and clean."  
  
"An honest sweat?" It's Cassandra's turn to roll her eyes and reach for Morgaine, tugging her close quickly to try to keep her out of the damp spots rapidly spreading in the tent.  "I do not care, you could have rolled in a bog and I would still want you."  
  
"How very Ferelden of you."  
  
"And wasn't it sacred, the sweetness we licked from each other's hands? And were we not lovely, then, were we not," Cassandra kisses her, fingers on her chin to guide her closer, chaste but no less sweet than the one before and then she's moving, guiding Morgaine to sit as she settles behind her, "as lovely as thunder, and damp grass, and flame?"  
  
"You're terrible," Morgaine murmurs as she reaches to unbind her hair, Cassandra helping until there sits a small stack of simple little pins before Cassandra reaches for her pack and the boar bristle brush. She moans from the first stroke through her hair as the tightness at her temples eases at last, the tangles gone to allow Cassandra's fingers to pass through it, scratching at her scalp just enough. "Oh don't stop."  
  
"I thought I was terrible?"  
  
"Terrible can be great praise or have you forgotten your great works Cassandra?"  
  
Before either can continue, Morgaine yelps in alarm; the rain is a thousand tiny daggers but no less cruel, the wind howls and water is leaking into the tent from some small hole and they are scrambling, swearing and laughing, hunkered into the smallest corner.  
  
"For the love of Andraste, can we not have one moment?" Perhaps not here but there are too many long nights at Skyhold where they have to work alone until they greet the sunrise with weary eyes and a bed that sits empty and waiting for them, for days when they move from camp to camp to right the wrongs of the world, together or apart. She would have one day, one night, just them and no one else.  
  
She has a leaking tent in the Hinterlands in the middle of a storm with the air a thick blanket of damp and an ache in her shoulders.  
  
"I'm sure Bull will have lewd suggestions as to what prompted _that_ noise from you," Cassandra mutters but she's moving them again, urging Morgaine to lean forward to rub at her shoulders, unafraid to dig her thumbs into each knot that makes her wince and grit her teeth. "We can blame the dwarf, we hunted down the beasts to make these tents, we shall blame one of his arrows for it."  
  
"Will you flip a table on him this time?" Morgaine teases, her ire gone because it's easy to relax under Cassandra's touch, something akin to awe settling in her belly at being the focus of her undivided attention.  
  
"I just might."  
  
Morgaine's head lolls forward and her eyes must close too because she wakes to find herself on her front, one of the bedrolls turned into a pillow to keep her comfortable, the upper half of her underwear gone with Cassandra kneeling above her, bracketed between her thighs to feel the heat and strength of them against her hips. She moans again, stretching without pain and the satisfied heaviness of limb that comes from being boneless with exhaustion.  
  
"Someone blessed you with a healer's touch beneath the soldier's hands I think," she whispers, her voice low, almost gone and slurring. Cassandra stops, resting her hands on Morgaine's shoulders, spanning them neatly until she only feels the heat, liquid fire racing from the top of her head to her toes that pools in the small of her back, in her belly.  
  
"High praise, you still flatter me."  
  
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;" if Cassandra is using poetry and the other little things that have become their own traditions since the courtship, she'll use them too, turning to see Cassandra's blush, "your works are wonderful, I know that full well. Darling, come here."  
  
Like a moth to flame, Cassandra moves enough to let Morgaine turn onto her back, stretching from the tips of her fingers to her toes simply because she can, arching her back up to give a show. Cassandra's gaze is heavy, drawn down the long pale column of her throat to the rise and fall of her breasts and Morgaine only needs to exhale before she is there, stretched out above her, a hand cupping her cheek, solid and reassuring, warm and alive and _hers_. Morgaine finds the line of her scar easily, traces her finger along it and nips Cassandra's lip. She swallows the gasp, the moan, nudges until Cassandra's thigh slots between her own and she breaks the kiss to curse.  
  
"Off, for the love of the Maker-"  
  
"Hush, they'll hear-"  
  
"Let them."  
  
It is the work of a moment but no moment has ever felt so long as this, the scramble to free Cassandra's breasts from the binding, to shimmy out of their smalls so there's nothing between them. There's no time for teasing, not now, Cassandra's lips claiming hers as she slides her hands down; she would map her shoulders at Skyhold, turning to kiss them, to map out constellations, to stroke over scars until Cassandra shudders but she cups her breasts and tips her fingers in frost until her nipples are hard. It earns her a ragged moan that could almost be pain but when they pull apart she sees how dark they are, sees the want, the hands at her hips burning like brands, the anchor that keeps Cassandra with her.  
  
Morgaine might relish maintaining her own control but she's found that she loves making Cassandra lose hers is even sweeter.  
  
Her fingers are still cool when she slips them between the Seeker's thighs, her thumb careful on her clit and Cassandra drops her head to Morgaine's shoulder, nips at her collarbone and cants her hips into her hand with a quiet plea. Morgaine is merciful, she is giving and loving and this is _Cassandra_ , the only person who knows her so well and she's hot and wet around her fingers, intent on letting Cassandra come first because she makes it all bearable, because she's there to help Morgaine shoulder this burden.  
  
Because she loves her, fiercely.  
  
There will be bruises on her hips come morning from how tightly Cassandra clutches at her when she comes and more at her collarbone where teeth sink in almost deep enough to draw blood but she knows that Cassandra will kiss them all away, that she'll forget any moment of pain when the Seeker collects herself and switches places, when it's her long fingers with those calluses, who knows how to draw out sounds Morgaine can hardly believe she knows how to make. She shivers as the sweat on her skin cools, stroking Cassandra's back as she smiles and the rain overhead has slowed to a steady fall and it still leaks through the tent, dampening the other half where their belongings are sheltered beneath Cassandra's shield, ever thoughtful, ever practical.  
  
All things pass, but if she's owed anything from the trials passed and those yet to come, she prays that she will always be granted this.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and poem quoted are from Anniversary by Cecilia Woloch. Bible passage quoted is Psalm 139:14 because I might as well make sure I'm off to hell.
> 
> Doesn't fit the prompt as well as I'd like but we've been having this miserable humid weather and writing them having fun despite it felt like a plan.


End file.
